The Beauty in Battle
by DormantShadow
Summary: Inuyasha and Miroku are out on a patrol when tragedy strikes. Miroku writes a heartfelt letter about his and Inuyasha's friendship. One-shot.


The air was dense and foggy, the soundless air penetrated only by the distant call of a bird. 

The men walking the mountain path were cautious in their advance to the demon camp; any sudden noises or actions could have them full of explosives and gunpowder in seconds. 

Their voices were only in slight whispers, which caused them to talk a bit less. Their voices in such quiet, eerie air made them all the more nervous and shaken. 

The two men paused at the faint, shrill shriek of a falling bomb, a loud boom ricocheting off the mountain walls. One of the men gasped at the sudden bang. 

Instantly, the two ducked, one shooting the other a deadly glare. As expected, a few firefly-like tracer bullets whizzed over their heads, landing solidly into the rock behind them where they had been standing only moments before. 

"Miroku, you dumbass." Inuyasha growled quietly, slowly raising the M4 carbine in his hands. "Sorry." Miroku muttered. "Damn Monk." 

Inuyasha peered through the thick fog, ears alert and twitching slightly. He cursed under his breath at his limited hearing and sight from the fog. The kamis were mocking him. He just _knew _it. 

A faint _crack _had him on the edge, and he quickly pinpointed the source of the sound and fired. A light thud confirmed he hit his mark, and he slowly rose, Miroku doing the same. "Got him." He sighed, lowering the gun. "Let's go." 

The two men breathed in relief as the fog began to clear, but then they blanched. Around them was a full-on battle, bullets thudding into trees and explosives stirring up the mountainside. 

War always has an unexplainable beauty, the symmetry of marching soldiers, the intensity of combat.

The soft purple-black glow of napalm, the golden-tinged tracer bullets flying through the air, the red and white blasts of light as grenades were thrown. 

But though their minds repelled the sight, their eyes did not, and they continued to stare at this gruesome beauty. But within the beauty was an ugly and bloody truth: this was war, and humans and demons alike were dying. 

They were snapped back to reality as a grenade rolled into their path, and thinking quickly, Inuyasha leaped forward, shielding his best friend from the deadly object._**I have nothing to lose.**_Which in reality, he really didn't. He had no girl to speak for, no family left except for the older brother he despised and his brother's wife that he loved. But he had a friend to protect. 

Miroku let out a cry, tumbling backward as he was shoved. His yell of protest was cut off as the grenade went off, and he turned away from the blast, but in that last moment he had to look back, stunned and astonished at the same time. 

The light cleared to reveal his friend, blasted back into the rock wall, bloodied and cringing at the pain, a large hole caved into his chest, his blood splattering the rock behind him. 

Miroku fell to his knees, the sight hitting him full-force. He crawled forward, the surrounding gunfire and blasts meaning nothing to him at this precise moment, and murmured, "What the fuck did you do that for?" 

Inuyasha gasped for breath, replying, "It's the story of my life, Monk." He began to smile, but the smile never reached his eyes; he had already died. 

A war story never really is about war. It's about friendship, and companionship, and the brutal truth that no matter who we are, we will always lose something dear to us in our lifetime. 

Miroku made this clear, as a week later after Inuyasha's death, he wrote a letter to Rin, Inuyasha's brother's wife.

He wrote of the good times they shared, the laughs they had, the time they got in trouble for inventing a game similar to hot potato with smoke grenades. And when they went on a listening patrol and got chased by some kamikaze demons with long swords. 

And then he poured his heart out into that letter, saying what an honorable man he was, what a great friend he was, how he always volunteered to do the duties no one wanted to do. 

He wrote everything he could think of in his friend's honor, and mailed it out. 

And two months later, Miroku heard no response. 

Rin never wrote back.

**-0-0-0-0-**

**Yeah, its kinda depressing (I cried a little while writing it) but this is actually based off of a short story called **_**How to Write a True War Story. **_

**This is like my spinoff of it, I hope you liked it. And as always, R&R! :D**


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